The next morning, he took me to breakfast at a diner and spread my papers across the table between two cups of coffee. I had my marriage certificate, Frank’s death certificate, old tax bills, and a photocopy of a deed transfer I barely remembered signing. Ethan read everything carefully. When he found the quitclaim deed, he asked the waitress for more hot water and kept going.
“This was filed six months after Grandpa died,” he said.
I stared at the paper. “Brian said it was part of estate cleanup.”
“It transferred full title from you to Brian for ten dollars.”
My stomach turned.
“Was there ever a trust?”
“I don’t know.”
“A life estate?”
“No.”
“A written agreement allowing you to live there permanently?”
“No.”
He exhaled slowly. “Then he took full ownership.”
By noon, Ethan had me sitting in the office of an elder law attorney named Denise Harper, a small woman with silver braids and a direct gaze that made dishonesty uncomfortable. She listened, reviewed everything, and asked sharper questions than I would have known to ask. Had I understood the transfer? Was I advised to seek independent counsel? Had Brian controlled my finances? Had he isolated me? Had he threatened housing if I complained?
